Goodnight, Ronald Weasley
by Marston Chicklet
Summary: Ron binge drinks, Pansy joins him, and both end up in a place they would rather not be.


**Notes:** Can be read as a companion piece to Illusory, but I don't think it's entirely necessary.

It had taken a few drinks, but the effects of alcohol consumption were finally showing. Ron's mind was beginning to settle into two layers: common sense, which was rapidly sinking into his unconscious mind, and impulsive stupidity, which seemed to be pressing against the top of his skull, making him pleasantly dizzy. A few more drinks and he might be able to turn round and look at the stripper who was moving through her routine with awkward movements too painful to look at without an alcohol-induced haze between her and his retinas.

It was a good rule to apply to the entire club, really. He had spent the last half an hour trying not to look at the stains so old they were ingrained into the wooden surface of the bar and ignoring the way that he would have to leave his shoes behind if he let them sit in one place too long—he was careful to keep his feet planted on the legs of the bar stool. The bartender didn't blink when he finished draining his current ale, just handed him another in response to the clumsily counted sickles being shoved across the table.

Any minute now, and he would stop forgetting things.

He knew that Harry had done the right thing in telling him that his daughter had been kidnapped by their first year Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, and that he had last left Hermione and Rose in Lucius Malfoy's Tuscan villa. It was the sort of thing that he was better off learning from his best friend than from a tabloid.

Of course, Harry hadn't gone into specifics, only mentioned that Scorpius and Al had been involved, and that was how he had ended up involved in the whole mess, but Harry really was a terrible liar, and Ron could see that he was hiding something.

If Lucius Malfoy was involved, there were only two possibilities. One of them was neatly eliminated by the fact that he had evidently kept his testicles, which left the other, less pleasant option.

His ex-wife was shagging Lucius Malfoy. And she was enjoying it.

He finished this ale in only two gulps.

When he slammed the mug down on the counter, the bartender eyed him suspiciously, evidently torn between amusement and the fear of liability if the poor sod ended up in St Mungo's with alcohol poisoning. The woman who had sat down beside him only a moment before was just amused.

"God, Weasley, I know that we've been hoping for your death since second year, but that doesn't mean I want to watch you kill herself."

The voice was only too familiar, but he couldn't put a name to it. He tried to spin the stool so that he could face her, but nearly toppled off instead.

"See what I mean?" she said, grabbing his arm to steady him. He was pleased to note that her voice was more than a little slurred. "You're going to die and I'll have my soul sucked out by dementors all because you haven't learned your limit."

She finished propping him up, then pushed her dark hair out of her face so that he could see it and everything slid into focus.

"Parkinson?" He didn't have to fight to keep the incredulity out of his voice; the alcohol did it for him. "What are _you _doing here?"

"I'm hurt that you aren't pleased to see me. I've missed mocking you terribly, you know."

In the years since he had last seen her, she had changed remarkably little. She had the same dark hair framing her face, the same hard displeasure stretched across her face, accented now with the wrinkling of her upturned nose and the addition of bright red lipstick on a mouth that was wrapped around the rim of an alcopop—one of those drinks that Hermione had always refused to drink in favour of expensive wine, so Ron had never tried one. The drink's unhealthy shade of pink suggested that this had been a wise decision, but his curiosity was piqued anyway.

Setting the bottle on the counter, she twirled her chair around until she could see the stage.

"Enjoying the show?" he asked, and she shuddered.

"I swear there are charms to fix this kind of clumsiness."

They winced simultaneously as the stripper wrapped her leg around the pole; the cracking of her hip was audible from across the bar. Ron glanced over, enjoying that her look of disgust was directed at someone besides him.

"I think that I could manage better than this," she said, crossing her arms across her practically non-existent chest and fixing her slightly unfocussed gaze. "I'm not sure that I want to know why Malcolm thought that this would be a good business move."

"You don't own it, do you?" This time, he couldn't keep the horror from his voice. He had always assumed that, in spite of her many failings as a human being, Pansy Parkinson had taste.

Fortunately her tone of mortification easily outstripped his. "What gave you such an idiotic idea?"

"But you said—"

"My ex-husband thought that a strip club would be the best way to finalise a business deal with an American company that produces magical sex products; his unfortunate leap of logic, not mine. Honestly, Weasley, do you think that I would be standing in this disgusting hole by choice?"

It seemed that there was a missing piece to the puzzle, but he was drunk enough to recognise it and realise that his powers of deduction had been significantly dulled. "Oh," he said, and returned to nursing his ale.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, eyes glued to the stage with identical expressions of horror; Ron had never realised that a fit and naked woman could be so thoroughly lacking in eroticism.

"Right," Parkinson said, taking a final swig from her alcopop and swaying as she stood. "I don't want to be here to see when she breaks an ankle."

"Where you going?" He tried to remember why he shouldn't be following her, something about mutual hatred and preferring to shoot himself in the foot to looking at her, but he found himself hoisting his bottom off the stool anyway.

"For a fag. You coming?"

She was even thinner standing than she had been—no figure to speak of at all, really—but something about the way the strap of her sandal hugged her ankle drew his attention to the curve of her calf, and then further up her leg to the place where her leg disappeared under the black fabric of her dress. As if sensing his gaze, she added some sway to her hips that was enticing in spite of the squelching of their feet as they made their way to the door.

The blast of fresh air as he stepped outside reminded him that it wasn't supposed to smell like a stale mixture of vomit and vodka. He sucked it in gratefully, refusing the cigarette that Parkinson held out in favour of continuing to inhale the clear night air.

"Come on," she said, grabbing hold of his wrist. "Let's get something to eat. I'm starving."

———

Parkinson licked the grease off of her finger, holding the chips out in a nauseating offering. The warm, sickly smell coated his throat and made him gag slightly as he shook his head.

"Suit yourself," she said with a shrug.

The churning of his stomach subsided as she removed the food from under his nose and proceeded to eat the rest without taking notice of his plight. To eat like that and still weigh less than he had at ten years old, she had to have some sort of wasting disease, Ron decided.

He was no longer as drunk as he had been in the club, and was beginning to second-guess his reasons for being here. True, it had been a while since he'd had a decent shag, but this was Pansy Parkinson, a thought that should have been more revolting than it actually was.

A quick glance over at her told him that the defensiveness had dropped from her face, making room for the fierce concentration involved in devouring as many chips as she could in the shortest amount of time.

In that split second, he made up his mind. The thought of Hermione's expression if she were to ever find out spurred him forward, so that he was leading the way through London's twists and turns and up the stairs in his building until they were standing in front of his flat.

Her eyebrow shot up, and she wrinkled her nose. "I should have known this would be the sort of area you'd live in."

"I'm surprised you didn't expect it."

The way that she crossed her arms was worrying—she would probably storm out of the building any moment and share the story of Ronald Weasley's misplaced hopes with Draco Malfoy, who would proceed to have it published in the _Daily Prophet_.

"Well," she said. "Aren't you going to invite me in?"

"Oh," he said, fumbling nervously with his key. He hadn't had many one-night stands since the divorce—certainly not enough to feel comfortable with the etiquette.

No sooner had he twisted the lock and shoved open the door, than Parkinson had thrown herself on him and had him pushed against the closet door. She tasted like sugar, vodka, and the odd plastic flavour of lipstick; there was still some salt from the chips on her lips. Breaking the kiss, she buried her face in his neck and began nibbling his collarbone as she unbuttoned his shirt. Leaving it hanging open, she slipped her hands under the fabric and pulled her to him again.

Something about the nails digging into his back, the way her teeth tugged at his bottom lip before she broke the kiss made a shiver start from his spine and shudder outward into a groan.

"God, Weasley," she said, pulling back and looking up at him, amused. "You make it sound like you're about to die. If you have a heart attack in the middle of this, I am _so _not Flooing anyone to help you."

"So kind," he replied once he had caught his breath.

Then she did the unexpected: giggled. He was caught so off-guard that he barely reacted to the sight of her reaching behind her back and unzipping her dress until she had stepped out of it and was standing in front of him in nothing but black lace that taught him an entirely new definition of 'hard'.

"I really hope that this flat is big enough for a bed, because you won't get anything if I'm not comfortable."

"It is. In fact, the bed even gets its own room."

"I don't think that I've ever been more shocked."

They half stumbled, half dragged one another to the bedroom, Parkinson tripping over her heels and losing one on the way. When the reached the bedroom, he fumbled for the light switch, but she batted his hand away and removed the other shoe, which she left lying in the middle of the doorway. He grabbed hold of her and tried to press her against the wall, but she pushed him onto the bed with surprising force and started tearing at his trousers in a way that alarmed him.

"Careful—you'll rip them!"

"You have a wand," she said, tugging them free of his knees to the sound of popping seams, not bothering to untangle them from his ankles. "Fix them in the morning."

And then he didn't care, because her tongue was flicking out and slipping down his abdomen and his cock was being eased into her mouth as she made use of teeth and hands and twisted and moved up and down and then stopped.

"Your turn." She flopped down next to him on the bed, nudging him with her elbow. "I'm not doing all of the work."

The unexpectedness of the encounter had faded somewhat, even if the spontaneity was still there, he reflected, lowering himself between her knees and kissing his way up her inner thigh until he reached the lace. He took his time removing it, enjoying the spastic jerking of her legs as he kissed through it as he remembered something that Hermione had said about being too impatient, too hurried… Not a mistake that he planned on making.

"Christ, Weasley—they're knickers, not advanced arithmancy. They should be off already."

He was halfway through his mumbled apology when he found himself being flipped onto his back. In one swift movement, the knickers were off, tossed carelessly over her shoulder as she slid onto him and began pounding against him and everything became a mass of sensations. Before long, she had collapsed over his chest, gasping, as his hips shuddered into her convulsively.

She rolled off of him, over so that her back was to him, and he reached for his wand, casting a cleansing spell on both of them.

"Er," he said, uncertain whether she was planning to stay. "Good night, I suppose."

Her voice was thick with sleep when she replied. "I swear if you ever tell anyone about this, I'll hang your testicles on my mantle."

Deep regret began to build in him, as he contemplated the many ways that this could fly back in his face, but they lessened when she shifted so that her back was pressed against his side. He shifted his arm so that it was slung across her and pulled her closer.

"Good night, Weasley."


End file.
